Short Stack
by Terraform
Summary: An ongoing collection of microfics/drabbles of the TMNT. First up is Mikey in "The Klunk Klause".
1. THE KLUNK KLAUSE

A/N: Another piece dug up from the archives and spit shined! First one in a mixed bag. Please enjoy.

* * *

THE KLUNK KLAUSE

Michelangelo in front of Donatello's aging computer, having wrangled a spare hour. It was no easy task prying his brother from the machine and he felt the pressure of his time limit bearing down on him. He tapped lightly at the keys, not hard enough to type anything, but enough to hear the hollow clack of his finger pads against the molded plastic, as if mapping out future sentences.

"Hm, how should I put this, little buddy?"

Klunk, wedged under the monitor, appraised this thought with a sleepy stretch of his arm.

"Good. Good input. I'll be sure to swing all my ideas by you."

Michelangelo frowned at the blank page on the screen.

"See how much I wrote in the last twenty minutes? That's all you, bud. Jumping up here in Donnie's room and distracting me."

He gave the little cat a neck scratch. Klunk's eyes slit open a fraction, and then clamped back shut with a sigh-like purr.

_Sure,_ he seemed to say without uttering a single word..._suuuuuuuureeeee_. Michelangelo chuckled at the thought before snapping his attention back to the task.

"Focus, Mikey."

He pressed his lips together as the words began to form:

_April,_

_I've put a lot of thought into this, so hear me out. I guess you know that this job comes with a lot of occupational hazards, and by 'this job' I mean regularly kicking ass and such. Just last Tuesday Raph spent an hour sealing up some of the deeper sword cracks on his shell with salve wax, and I know it must've been a bad hit because normally he thinks he's a badass if he lets it get infected. What a bonehead, but that's my bro. And that was just a little tumble with some knock-about low time crims that wanted to try out the display katanas they jacked from the local pawn shop __(amateurs, obvs)__. Let me tell you, they were as blunt as butter knives, but as heavy as hell. Thus the deep cracks. And only the Friday before Leo managed to knock out another dragon that had a gun and almost shot me at close range. Lucky he saw him before I did, I guess. I was too busy with his buddy who had gone commando on Don with a meteor hammer. That sh*t left spiral bruises and two inch gashes all down his leg, and still he goes for his evening strolls to junkyard city - now there's a badass. And you can bet your life that I didn't let that guy get away with doing that to the brains trust. I launched my 'chucks at his neck so fast that he'll be croaking his plea in court - that is, if the foot witness disposal program don't get him first. Leo had a stray bullet skim past his temple that night. It left more of a burn wound than anything, but just thinking about scares the bejesus out of me. Just like that, he could have been gone. But he's a survivor, the ol' Leo, I bet he could see it coming. Haha. _

_Anyway, point is, our list of enemies seems to keep growing, and as much as I'm a live and let live kinda guy, it seems that our encounters are usually the "throw the first punch" sort. So, now that I've painted a merry picture of the day to day shitstorm that is our lives, I get to the real question: You have to promise me that if you don't hear from us, or if we're missing, or if something does happen to us...  
_

Michelangelo paused briefly, trying to articulate his thoughts.

_...if something does happen to us, that you can look after Klunk. I couldn't forgive myself if there was no-one here for him. Sometimes I don't know myself if we're gonna make it back in one piece, and I guess what I'm getting at is it'd make me happy knowing you could look out for the little furball if ever I couldn't. He's been my best little bud since the day we met and I don't want to let him down, even if I'm not around anymore. So please,_ _**please**, give us a holla every so often so that you know we're still down here, in the dark underground, feeding the cat. I've got a small amount of money saved for some food and whatever else if it ever comes to that. And just so you know, he likes to play with string but sometimes he eats it so watch out for that - it's not pretty when it comes out the other end. Also, he loves bacon if you ever have any spare. And brushes. Lots of brushes. And if he really likes ya, he might even give ya a smoochy headbutt. Anyway, I guess that's all I have to say about that. And in case you were wondering, Raphael's back did get infected and I made it my duty to slap him on the shell as often as possible. Such a dumbass. _

_Thanks April, you're the best._

_Mikey xx'_

Michelangelo sat back, reading over his words before giving a slight nod.

"That'll do, pig."

He glanced over at his quietly rumbling cat, his heart warming at the loving trust he had been granted by the small tabby creature. If only the rest of the world were so kind. He let out a sigh of relief. This task had been playing on his mind for a long while, and very rarely did things do that. But then again, rarely did things get a chance to get close to him. But that which did he protected with a loyal fierceness that belied his cheery exterior.

The back-up plan. Sometimes even he had one.

With a slight flick of his arm he pushed the cursor over the send button, and clicked.

It was then that Leonardo burst into the room, switched on and eyes blazing.

"Mikey. Grab your things. Something's come up."

Without a second thought, Michelangelo sprung up and patted the _nunchaku_ holstered at his side.

"I'm ready, bro - let's go."

...


	2. HOW THE WAR WAS WON

A/N: A little more Don and April - imported over from DA (terraformrex) where there is a very M-rated accompanying picture of the same name.

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HOW THE WAR WAS WON

"Mooners is _so_ a word!"

The protest came out more confident than she felt, but she was sticking to her guns. April was certain she had heard it somewhere, somehow, in the course of her life. Besides that, it very much looked like a word. Enough to pass as a real one, anyway. The Pinocchio dregs of language, she surmised, and she was going to make that marionetted bastard dance. Donatello remained skeptical.

"Maybe, but it's not listed in any official book."

"_Official_?" she repeated, the condemnation rolling off her tongue like a bitter taste.

Donatello sighed. This was not going to be easy.

"Yeah. You know, 'official'. Eight letters. That I'd recognize and give you the fifty point bonus for, no problems. But you can't go making up words to put down on the board, it's just...it's not right!."

The Scrabble board lay before them, and the game was tight. With a seven letter word she'd jump easily into the lead. But ever the stickler for method, he couldn't let it just slide unchallenged. He looked down at his own tiles, a useless jumble of vowels. Even he had trouble winning against her. Not that he minded. Unlike April, most of his pleasure was derived in just in spending time with her. She on the other hand, was an unyielding slave to the competition. A small grin pulled at the edge of his mouth and he quickly hid it away.

"Are you accusing me of making up words?" she shot back, "What do you think I am? Some kind of clueless amateur? In fact, I can use it right now in a sentence: 'Mooners is a damned word.' Happy?"

Her fury rose to her cheeks in a bright flush. Donatello's heart lurched. Why was she so beautiful when she was angry? It was extremely distracting and not at all helpful right now. He looked back down at his tile holder, trying not to be derailed in his argument.

"I'm only trying to play by the rules, April."

"Fine. You don't want me to put any non-official words on the board? Well, then. How about I officially take words OFF the board..." she flicked up the board edge closest to her, scattering the letters across the floor.

Anger flashed briefly in Donatello's eyes as something in her petty defiance unlocked some primal urge within.

"I take it you resign?"

April growled, infuriated by his even temperament. She launched herself at him, fists at the ready, with the full intention of pummeling his chest. Donatello saw it coming a mile away, and catching her wrists, held her still.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked her in low whisper.

Her outrage was suddenly replaced by a terrible guilt...

"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."

"Really?" he asked softly, a glint in his eye.

She nodded.

"It's like you always say. It's just a game." her features softened, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

He smiled, but still held her in his grasp.

"You can have the word. I really don't care anymore."

April's eyes glimmered. She looked briefly at his strong hands wrapped firmly around hers, and then back to his face, a small grin of victory on her lips.

"That's it?" she asked, "Just like that?""

"There is one condition."

April raised a brow, intrigued as to where this was going. Of course there was a condition.

He released her as it came: "Take off your clothes."

"Donnie, I don't think that move is in the official rule book."

"I know. But I was hoping we could play a new game." he said, putting his hands at her waist and dragging her closer, "and you can get as rough as you want."

April chuckled. She should have known. He probably had it all planned from the very first letter, knowing that she would eventually lose her temper. It was the dark side of her that any kind of rivalry usually brought to the fore. And besides that, she already knew exactly what she wanted to do with that mask of his.

"Hm. I've always liked that game, Don. But you have to say it - say that I won."

Donatello began stroking her waist with his thumbs, and looked her right in the eye as he lied.

"You won."

Knowing that of right now, he was the ultimate victor.

...


	3. THE MANTLE

A/N: Resurrected from the archives and so completely rewritten it's practically a different story. Please enjoy!

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THE MANTLE

The figure stood alone in the weapons hall, gauntlet pressed to the grinding stone. It scraped and churned and sparked against the ridged blades, releasing an odor he found almost comforting. Imperceptibly he shifted his arm. Fresh sparks brimmed from steel.

There was no other he could charge with this task save himself - a task he both loved and loathed - the quickening of armor that balanced death on its edges. Shredder snorted in disgust. The thought that one of his clan should do this was absurd, considering they had not been able to capture but a glimpse of his foe for over three months - three months he had spent sipping a bitter tea as his grip grew ever tighter - fruitless on his vendetta against his nemeses, but stronger on the crime syndicates infesting New York.

An unexpected break in his misfortune changed everything. His nostrils flared at the idea of his revenge, at the sweetness of their downfall when he finally tasted it. To prove that no-one made a fool of The Shredder. That even without victory, he was in control. The humiliation throbbed deeper in him than he expected.

'_No matter'_ he thought '_With her I take care of both itches at once.' _

The sunlight had long since hollowed out from the vast building, leaving it at cold shell on the city's fringe. As the night had set in, only a few of his most trusted remained guarding the perimeter. Rarely he saw anyone at all. Tonight would be different.

The clicking of approaching footsteps echoed on stone.

"Saki-san?"

She had arrived.

"_Come_."

He did not turn. He switched off the grinder, waiting as the spinning stone came to a whirring halt.

The clicks stopped short behind him. In a heartbeat the newly sharpened blades were at her throat. The visitor gasped in shock. His black eyes bored into hers, within moments deciding her fate.

"Good." he whispered.

With a flick of his hand, he cut the belt that held her trench closed. It fluttered open. His eyes pulled downwards. Patent leather heels rested firmly apart upon the floor. His gaze slid lustily back up her slim legs, feeding on the pale curves bound in tight leather, over the concave line of her stomach, and up to where a stout corset had hoisted her breasts toward him.

At his obvious delight, she relaxed a little. The straight line of her shoulders readjusted as she dipped her head to catch back his attention.

"I received your note."

The Shredder lowered his blades, and sensing his permission, the woman held out her immaculately claw-tipped hand and let a piece of paper flutter to the floor. It swiveled in the air like a lost bird, before landing face up. On it a photo that matched herself. A photo of a woman caught in a very compromising situation. A photo of a woman with a secret.

Written on the back was an address and the invite in Shredder's unmistakable elegant scrawl:

_I request your services for my truce._

"I am pleased that you made it."

"If the terms of this truce are to be trusted, how could I say no?" she said.

A fraction of a smile, then the reply without a trace of doubt : "You would not."

"No. Perhaps I wouldn't." The young woman's eyes looked over his shoulder at the fortress wall where weapon upon weapon lined up. There were so very many.

Without waiting for her question, he answered.

"Look well. There are more than ten hands to every weapon you see. Even the greatest warrior would struggle against those odds. Even five."

"Four. Four, now." she whispered, to herself mainly, the gentle words a stark contrast to her appearance.

Saki offered a slight nod, addressing her with an unexpected familiarity.

"Yoshi was an honorable opponent. He trained his pupils well."

She lowered her eyes, hiding her tears.

"He was much more than that. He is greatly missed."

"You have my condolences."

The warmth in his voice was sincere. The woman had heard that Saki was charming in person. Now she could believe it.

"How did... did you find out... how I was connected to them?"

At first he said nothing, thinking of the fortunate coincidence in which she had been spotted emerging from the sewers in the presence of his former enemy's students. Within days of tailing her and discovering her other secret, a new plan had hatched in his mind. A way to get his revenge. It's potency deepened by the day, his sexual interest piquing to the point he found himself lusting and daydreaming endlessly for her. Leather on metal. A woman to take the illusion of power, much like the mantle of The Shredder itself.

"I have my ways." he spoke at last.

"And am I to believe this will grant them amnesty? That the fight against them will finally be over?"

He chuckled, the sound bitter and patronizing.

"I have far more pressing concerns in my empire than old battles."

"P-Please. I need your word."

The Shredder tipped his head.

"You already have it. Your friends shall be safe. As I have instructed, you are free to perform whatever specialty your services entail. But make no mistake. It is you that I will break."

Light radiating from the nearby sconces flickered a dark shadow of his bladed form onto the stone wall behind him. The Shredder. Charming or not, there was no forgetting who she was talking to.

"You won't." she said with a soft defiance, "Believe me, you won't."

A brutal grin sliced his face. He stepped closer to her, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body. He stroked his hand down the length of her torso. She shivered. Out of disgust or flattery she could not say. From his sharp jaw to the cut of his heavy battle suit, he was not without a terrible beauty.

"By the time I'm finished with you, young lady, you won't know what to believe."

"They cannot find out." she begged in a shaky voice, "About any of this."

_'Submitting so easily?'_ he pondered. Perhaps she would not be so fun after all.

"It shall be honored."

At his assurance, a flitter of relief passed over her face. She gave a slow nod of agreement.

"Well, then," she said smoothly, reaching out to rap her nails on his chest-plate armor, "First things first - Get to your knees and strip down to something more befitting of a lowly slave."

He fell to his knees with a thud.

"As you command, Mistress O'Neil."

She removed the crop latched to her side, striking it in her open palm. The dull throbbing in his groin grew to a roar.

"Oh," she added, almost as an aside, "and just be aware - the safe word is '_turtle_'."

...


End file.
